


Past Lives

by messyfeathers



Series: You Are Safe Now. [8]
Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Best Of?, Cecil has Vitiligo, Cecil has slightly psychic tendencies, Comfort, Episode Related, Fluff, Freaked Out Carlos, M/M, Otherworld Desert, POC Cecil, Slight Anxiety Mentions, Soulmates, Time is Weird, episode 67
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-04
Updated: 2015-05-04
Packaged: 2018-03-29 01:48:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3877720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/messyfeathers/pseuds/messyfeathers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carlos has known time isn’t real since the clocks leaked gelatinous gray gloop onto his favorite sneakers every time he tried to set an alarm.  But now, after an unexpected broadcast, he’s beginning to realize it’s even less real than he could ever have anticipated.  Either that or his boyfriend may not be all that he seems...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Past Lives

**Author's Note:**

> based off several prompts for Cecil & Carlos' reaction to hearing [Best Of?] and also for a bit of fluff to soften the implications of...well, everything.  
> also inspired by [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Cux2qJjApGA), specifically the line "I've got the strangest feeling/this isn't our first time around.."

Carlos finds himself still listening to the nightly broadcasts, even now that Cecil is here, physically here, lying only a few feet away, softly snoring and mumbling wonderful nonsense in his sleep.  It’s simply routine at this point to lie down under the capricious constellations of the desert sky and switch on the radio.  He uses headphones - miraculously still functional despite the inestimable amount of sand and grit that must have found its way into every crevice - so as not to wake his sleeping lover.   
  
The scientist’s lips unwittingly tilt upwards at the edges as he relaxes back onto their makeshift bed of pillowy otherworld rock, which against all logic makes a wonderfully soft mattress.  There’s something captivating about the way Cecil’s eyelashes flutter, the few lighter patches refracting the moonlight in prisms.  Carlos feels his smile widen further as the unfamiliar voice on the radio announces the theme of the night’s broadcast: a recollection of Cecil’s past highlights.  It’s unusual enough for the timeline of the broadcasts to align with that of the otherworld desert; hearing a teenage Cecil’s voice squeak over the airwaves is the pinnacle of pleasant and unanticipated surprises.  Carlos has one hand poised to rouse Cecil to share in the reminiscing, but he freezes as the younger Cecil’s words ring through the earpiece.  He adjusts the device to be sure he isn’t mishearing the story of Night Vale’s creation as told by his impossibly-aged boyfriend.  Segment after segment unfold a continuing tale of confounding chronology and discordant reality.  Carlos doesn’t realize how emotionally invested he is in the broadcast until he catches himself whispering a response to the final words of a despondent and dying Cecil.  
  
“Ceec, I’m right here, _you’ll find me_.”  
  
“Hm?” a drowsy voice mumbles from the bundle of blankets curled next to him. Carlos hurries to wipe at the few stray tears he hadn’t realized were trailing down his face, and in the same motion he stuffs his headphones and radio out of sight.  Cecil props himself up on an elbow, tucking a straggle of ebony hair behind an ear in order to better survey the scientist.  Carlos stares blankly out over the distant embers of the desert camp below them and swallows hard.  “Why are you up?” Cecil yawns, padding across the few feet between them and stiffly settling next to his boyfriend.  The scientist affects as much normalcy as he can muster in his reply.  
  
“Science,” he declares with a vague, shaky hand gesture.  Cecil nods in understanding as he snuggles further into the borrowed lab coat draped around his shoulders to ward against the cool desert night.  The visage of Cecil - hair in a mess, honey-chocolate eyes crinkled in a sleepy smile that pokes dimples into freckled cheeks - is almost enough to push the memory of the broadcast from his thoughts.  
  
Almost.  
  
The vast years of inconsistent broadcasts rush through his mind in a static blur as a shiver rushes through his body in tandem.  Despite his attempts to force the words into sensible structures, his mind is too tired to process the timeline.  The scientist doesn’t realize he’s shaking until Cecil is kneeling in front of him, cool fingers softly unfurling balled fists.    
  
“Tell me?” Cecil’s voice is calm and smooth and gentle.    
  
Carlos shakes his head minutely.  He can’t tell Cecil about the radio, about the inexplicable history, the gaps, the violent demise of his home, the schism of reality.  Cecil lifts the scientist’s palms, ghosting a tender kiss across twin rows of self-inflicted red crescent imprints.  
  
“Please?”  
  
Carlos recalls his boyfriend’s panic after hearing the cassette tapes of his adolescence; the more recent stress of memory gaps and involuntary coercion.  He’s been so happy to be free of it all here in the desert.  Now to tell him about an impossible life he certainly won’t remember?  
  
“I can’t,” the scientist whispers.  Cecil nods hesitantly, offering the best attempt at a reassuring smile.  One hand cards through the scientist’s tousled silvering curls.  “Why are you up?” Carlos finally manages with a bit more calm gradually replacing the unsettling fear.  Cecil’s fingers proceed to brush lovingly along his cheek.  Something dark dances through his sleepy expression before he blinks it away.  
  
“Dreams,” is all the answer he gives.    
  
–  
  
Carlos waits to bring up any sort of discussion until Cecil is in a more relaxed environment and he himself is more sure of his own response.  As it happens, Cecil is half-buried in a blanket of curly white in an attempt to scratch Alicia’s dog behind the ear.  The radio host’s slight stature paired with the bichon frisé’s boundless energy gives the task a much more humorous impression.  Carlos lets out a chuckle at the sight before calling his boyfriend’s name.  Immediately a head pokes out from above the fluff.    
  
“Baby, want me to do your hair?” Carlos offers, reaching out a hand.  Cecil quickly extricates himself from the sea of puppy fur - much to the dog’s dismay - and eagerly accepts the scientist’s hand.  They find their way to the lighthouse before settling to the sand in the shade of the structure.  Cecil obediently positions himself straight-backed and cross-legged in front of Carlos, slipping a hair elastic to his wrist in anticipation.  This is a much-missed tradition they share.  Most days Cecil tucks his long, dark unruly waves into a messy bun or absently fishtails it over one shoulder during nerve-wracking broadcasts.  The careful smoothing and plaiting is something intimate they reserve for the late nights that follow difficult days, and lazy Sunday mornings on the weeks that City Council doesn’t cancel the weekend.   
  
Cecil immediately relaxes into the scientist’s hands as they brush delicately through the tangles.  Carlos has decided that this is the best ambiance in which to bring up the upsetting broadcast: relaxed, quiet, familiar, together.  The scientist has just drawn in a breath when Cecil softly interrupts his train of thought.    
  
“What do you think of reincarnation?”  
  
Carlos postpones his discussion, choosing to focus on the first careful knots of a complex braid.    
  
“I mean,” Cecil continues, “I know you’re not much for soulmates since they’re statistically impossible and mathematically improbable in the population of a planet of our size,” he stumbles through the scientific explanation quoted from a conversation long ago.  “But, I guess I find something romantic in the idea of a hundred different lives, a thousand different worlds, and somehow two people are destined in some cosmic way to always find each other.”  There’s silence for a moment, and then a quiet admission, “I suppose it’s just silly.”  
  
“It’s not silly,” Carlos insists.  “I just like the idea that love is a choice.”  He focuses on the process: plait, brush, smooth, knot.  “I like to think I wake up every morning and decide to love you a little more each day.  Not because of any cosmic destiny, but because I choose to.”  Cecil hums a noncommittal sound in response.  “Why do you ask?” Carlos ventures, curiosity piqued by how well this conversation could segue into everything he had hoped to say.  Cecil squirms slightly in his lap.  
  
“Dreams.”  
  
Carlos’ rhythm comes to an abrupt pause partway through the braid.  “Dreams?  Or visions?”    
  
“It’s getting harder to tell between the two these days,” Cecil admits with a shrug.  “They’re these-,” he begins to talk with his hands, which makes the braiding difficult.  Carlos just smiles to himself.  “These glimpses into lives.  Sometimes it’s the past, sometimes it’s the future, sometimes different worlds…sometimes I don’t even recognize us.  It’s like when you feel like you know someone even when you don’t recognize them at all.  But I know, I just _know_ it’s us, somehow finding each other every time.”    
  
Carlos waits to respond until he’s finished the intricate braid.  He loops the elastic onto the end, finishing the process as ever with a gentle kiss to Cecil’s shoulder.  “How about we make a deal,” he murmurs against warm skin, precisely over one of his favorite patches of pale freckles.  “We choose to love each other a little more every day, and at the end when everything is over, if we wake up in some strange new world,” one more kiss as he wraps his arms closer around the man in his lap, “then we promise to always find each other again.”  Placated, Cecil tilts his head to capture one more kiss on the lips this time.  His fingers wind into the braid, examining the scientist’s handiwork.  Carlos watches him for a moment more before deciding to finish the conversation.  “How old are you, honey?”  
   
“What a brazen question,” Cecil teases, pulling the plait over his shoulder in a flirtatious sweep.    
  
“I’m serious,” Carlos chuckles.  “I’ve never thought to ask.”  
  
“I don’t count the years,” Cecil shrugs.  “It only limits the time you have left.  But if I had to estimate, I’d say maybe 36.  Or, I guess _definitely_ ,” he declares.  “Definitely 36.  Why?”    
  
“I heard something on the radio last night.  Your first broadcast.  They were airing a collection of your best moments on radio.  But your first broadcast,” he takes a deep breath.  “It was before Night Vale was founded.  And Night Vale was founded in 1745.”  Despite Carlos’ attempt to be gentle, Cecil stiffens in his arms.  “All of them, all the moments happened decades, a century ago.”  
  
“What does that mean?” Cecil questions haltingly after a long moment of silence.    
  
“I don’t know,” Carlos admits.  
  
“But you’re going to find out, right?” His boyfriend presses as he scrambles to face the scientist.  “I-isn’t that what a scientist does?”  
   
“Of course.  I’ve already come up with a few hypotheses in fact.  Possibly it’s a very literal glimpse of the multiverse theory; reality itself splitting and branching based upon the variance of free will.  Or maybe time is simply even less existent than we ever assumed it to be.”  Cecil nods enthusiastically at each theory, desperately clinging to any shred of explanation, but Carlos falters over the last one.  “Maybe whoever your father was, he wasn’t human.  Or your mother, she might not have been as human as you recall.”  Cecil’s eyes are suddenly wide and fearful.  “And you may not be either,” Carlos finishes slowly.  “Are you alright?” he asks, concerned with Cecil’s lack of any further response.    
  
His boyfriend seems less shaken after a pause, but when he does reply his voice is slightly morose.  “I suppose immortality doesn’t have much of an impact after you discover your life itself belongs to an entity you don’t even know.”    
  
“I didn’t want to tell you on the heels of all this Lot 37 stuff,“ Carlos explains, "but I thought it would be better to process this while we’re still together.”  
  
Cecil nods again, slightly more optimistic.  “What does all this mean for _us_?” Despite his affected calm, the last word still escapes as an uncertain quaver.  
  
This time Carlos is the one offering reassuring caresses. “Well, if we’re living in countless universes created by a combination of happenstance and choice then I guess I’m glad I’m living in the one in which every schism has led me here.”   A brush along a cheekbone.  “And if time is erratic and less than existent, then I’m so grateful that our timelines have crossed at this exact moment.”  The tuck of a stray hair that’s already frizzed its way out of the neat braid thanks to the desert heat.  "And if this is a case of isolated immortality, then in all your long years of trysts and fancies, I feel honored to be the one you call the love of your life.”  
  
Cecil’s expression veritably melts for a moment before his brows quirk. “‘ _All my trysts_ ’?”  
  
“According to your broadcast, you did quite a few experiments with the inventor of the radio. Some very _scientific_ experiments,” Carlos intones, causing Cecil’s copper cheeks to flush a deep garnet.  
  
“Why would I say that on the radio?” he whispers in surprise.  
  
“Because you’re you, and you say everything on the radio,” Carlos laughs pulling Cecil closer into his arms. “Blabber mouth,” he jokes with a playful kiss to Cecil’s still-crimson cheek. They stay like that: leaning against the lighthouse, tangled so close it’s hard to tell where one stops and the other starts as they watch the sky paint the desert gold in the early sunset.  
  
“You always will be,” Cecil softly murmurs after a while. Carlos gives a curious hum, prompting his boyfriend to peek up from his comfortable burrow against the scientist’s chest. “The love of my life - no matter how weird or how long or how _many_ my lives may be.  It will always be you.”  
  


**Author's Note:**

> a huge thanks to [goatofcontemplation](http://goatofcontemplation.tumblr.com/) for helping me edit this, and another thanks to _you_ for reading!  
>  comments/critique are always loved and appreciated~  
> if you'd like to send a prompt of your own my way or discuss _what the heck even happened to Cecil Palmer in this episode_ , I can be found at [montressorspacep0rt](http://montressorspacep0rt.tumblr.com/) !


End file.
